Furious Fists
A narrow shaft of yellow lamplight shone from the wide-open door of the
Mud Turtle, as Tom and Ben Gordon approached the unsavory gambling den
and grog-shop at the edge of the swamp; and a wild medley of songs,
shouts, oaths, threats and cat-calls assailed their ears.
“Big crowd at the Turtle tonight,” spoke up Tom, just a tinge of
uneasiness in his tone.
“Sure is,” agreed Ben. “Listen to that hullabaloo, will you! They’re
fairly lifting the roof.”
“S’pose that blackguard of a Fagan is in there, Ben, as Bill warned us?”
“Hard to tell. We’ll just slide by, quiet like, and minding our own
business. Those crazy galoots are making such an uproar that they
couldn’t hear a crack of thunder outside.”
“Let’s hope so. I don’t crave to fall in the hands of big Pat and his
gang of hoodlums.”
Gazing ahead, in the brilliant moonlight, they were relieved to see
that there was not a solitary soul outside the noisy tavern; and it
appeared, much to their satisfaction, that they would be able to get by
the dangerous dive without being molested.
“Looks like old Lady Luck is with us,” said Ben happily, as they drew
up within a few yards of the open door.
When they had come almost opposite the door, however, a runty,
wizen-faced fellow, dressed in deerskin breeches and a cotton shirt
open at the throat, shot out of the place as if propelled from a
catapult. As he reached the outside, he suddenly tripped and pitched
forward. And lucky he was; for just as he did so, a glass bottle sailed
over his head and plopped into the shallow swamp with a kerplunk that
sounded like a diving frog.
The runty fellow was up in a flash.
“Watcha trip me fer?” he demanded of Tom Gordon, who had been very
nearly bowled over.
“I didn’t trip you,” answered the boy quietly.
“Skeered to ’fess up, eh?” he leered, doubling up his fists ominously.
“Listen lunkhead,” repeated Tom, somewhat nettled by the chap’s manner,
“I say that I didn’t trip you.”
“Of course, he didn’t trip you,” Ben asserted firmly. “So run along and
peddle your papers.”
An ugly look came over the fellow’s face.
“Threatenin’ me, be yuh?” he bawled. “I’m bad Pete Higgins! Guess yer
didn’t know that.”
“I don’t care whether your name is Higgins, Wiggins or Spriggins,”
replied Tom, snapping his fingers in the chap’s face.
“Say, do yer want ter go back ter the village in chunks, ’stead of all
in one piece?”
“If you don’t stand aside, you’ll land on your neck in that mud-puddle.”
“And quick!” rasped Ben.
The sottish fellow gave a snarl, for all the world like a mad dog,
raised his fists, and started forward. But then he stopped abruptly,
froze in his tracks, and stared long and hard into Tom Gordon’s face.
“Tarnation,” he said finally, evil intent in his very tone, “I know yer
now! Yer the young squirt what Pat Fagan’s lookin fer!”
“Out of the way, fellow!” ordered Ben, who was now becoming thoroughly
alarmed. “Come on, Tom! Let’s get going.”
At these words, their stubby opponent wheeled about with surprising
ginger and once more dashed into the Turtle. Before the somewhat
astounded boys could take more than a step or two, he was out again.
And worse still, far worse, back of him loomed the hulking figure of
the dreaded Pat Fagan! The big border ruffian rushed forward, seized
Tom’s shoulder in a powerful grasp and began to laugh.
“Good fer you, Pete Higgins!” he exclaimed. “It’s sure ’nuff the young
varmint what shoved me in the swamp.”
“I figgered so, Pat.”
“Yep, an’ I aim ter tan his hide in good shape. What luck!”
What bad luck, indeed, for Tom Gordon! Fagan showed his jagged,
tobacco-stained teeth in an evil grin, while he still held a firm grip
upon the boy’s shoulder. A gleam of triumph shone in his eyes.
“Come, boy,” he threatened, as the lad kept a tight-lipped silence,
“what have yer got ter say fer yerself?”
The burly soldier’s awful grip tightened on Tom’s shoulder. His five
fingers seemed to sink like daggers into the boy’s flesh. Pain shot all
through Tom, and a sudden passion of rage filled his every vein. The
anger and the pain together gave him a fierce impulse, backed by double
his usual strength. Fagan held him by the left shoulder, but quickly
clenching his right fist, he rammed it into the soldier’s stomach with
great violence.
Powerful as he was, Fagan’s grip was torn loose; and, despite himself,
he staggered back, with the wind half knocked out of him.
“I’ll skin yer alive!” he wheezed, holding his midriff and frantically
trying to regain his wind.
By this time, word had spread within the Turtle that some sort of a
fight was shaping up outside. A mixed crowd of soldiers, trappers,
traders and half-breeds--about a dozen in all--came tumbling out the
door, eager for the expected excitement.
“What goes on here?” asked a chunky, heavily-bearded trapper, dressed
in a fringed buckskin suit.
“Fagan’s ketched the young sprout what heaved him in the swamp,”
explained the man Pete. “He’s goin’ ter give him a goin’ over.”
“Aw shucks, Pat,” protested the trapper, “he’s only a kid. Don’t use
him up!”
“Now jest keep yer big beak outen this, Sandy!” retorted the vengeful
Pat, who had by this time recovered his breath.
“Sandy’s right,” broke in another of the crowd. “He’s jest a young
gaffer. Tain’t sportin’ to smash him up.”
“Be fair, Pat!” yelled someone else.
“Keep yer blabs shut, every last man of yuh!” bellowed Fagan, doubly
enraged by this interference.
“Well, if ye must play the bully,” went on the trapper known as Sandy,
“go over yonder an’ fight, aside the shanty, where there’s a good bit
more room.”
Fagan turned and stripped off his flannel shirt. His huge, hairy arms
and his big, knotted hands looked dangerous.
“I kin give him all the fight he kin swaller right har,” he snarled.
“’Fraid if I give him more room, he’ll turn tail an’ run.”
Fagan had a deeper reason, in truth, for wanting to fight in the narrow
space between the door of the Turtle and the swamp. He was banking on
a quick, rough-and-tumble scuffle, and he knew, full well, that his
extra weight, in close quarters, would give him a better chance. He was
smart enough to realize that his wind wouldn’t be nearly as good as the
younger, leaner, clean-muscled Tom’s; and the narrow, cramped space
would tend to give him added advantage.
But the watching crowd overruled big Pat on that score.
“Ye may as well give in, Pat,” urged his crony, Pete.
Now the whole crowd moved over. Tom, stripped down the way Fagan was,
had a determined fire in his blue eyes.
“Don’t fret, Ben,” he said to his brother, whose face was white and
drawn, “I think I can take his measure.”
“Keep the big cuss runnin’ aroun’, lad,” put in the trapper, Sandy,
giving Tom a friendly tap on the shoulder. “He’s soft from wild livin’,
and in the long run ye’ll have his tongue a hangin’ out.”
In the bright moonlight, in the big open space beside the shanty, the
two fighters squared off. Tom, slim and straight, but sinewy, was
outweighed by at least thirty pounds. Pat Fagan’s sloping shoulders and
hairy chest and long arms gave him an ominous, bear-like appearance.
The onlookers knew right off what kind of a fight each contestant
would try to make it. Fagan would be for rushing in close, grabbing,
wrestling, hugging; mauling Tom after he had him on the ground. Tom’s
tactics would be to keep off the burly soldier by quick footwork,
sidestepping, dancing away, darting in cunningly with sharp, swift
jabs; blows that would sting big Pat, tantalize him, make him mad, keep
him charging in like a wild bull, until his wind was gone. Then would
come Tom’s big chance, smashing straight in with hard punches that
carried the whole weight of his body behind them.
The watching crowd stood in a wide circle, bodies tense, fists
clenched, heads poked forward, eying every move of big Pat and Tom,
as they warily circled and edged in. Ben Gordon’s heart was pumping
fiercely. Would Tom be able to fight his kind of fight? Or would
the ponderous Pat succeed in overpowering him with his sheer, brute
strength? If Pat could do it, then it would be a speedy fracas, and
soon over with. If Tom, then it would probably drag along for half an
hour. Ben’s pulses beat savagely when Fagan suddenly lunged.
As Pat rushed forward, he worked his brawny arms like a windmill. His
wide swings, though clumsy, were heavy and they drove Tom back. One
of them caught the lad a glancing blow on the cheek, leaving a red,
raw streak. But Tom was the better boxer. While he was forced to yield
ground, his fists, at the same time, were working straight and true,
like pistons. One hefty punch cut Pat’s lip and made the blood run.
Pat fumed; then dove forward again, attempting to encircle Tom’s waist
with his gorilla-like arms.
“Watch out, Tom!” screamed Ben, torn with alarm.
But the agile Tom was smart enough to escape the trap. Quick as a
rabbit he whirled sidewise, at the same time plunging his elbow hard
into Pat’s stomach. Then he dodged low, underneath Pat’s hairy arms,
and threw himself to one side, out of danger. In a trice he was up,
alertly facing his opponent again.
Fagan stood stock-still, glowering sullenly at his nimble adversary. He
panted heavily for a few seconds, then charged once more. This time he
got a partial clutch on Tom’s arm, and yanked him toward him. The boy
wrenched loose, but the same time unluckily lost his balance and went
sprawling backwards.
“Pat’s got him now!” gloated the wizened Pete; and Ben gave another
yell of alarm, as he saw his brother go down, flat as a pancake.
Pat leaped eagerly toward the prostrate boy, expecting to pin him to
the ground and beat him half senseless. But Tom was quick as a cat. He
turned over with lightning speed and rolled swiftly to one side. Pat
came down clawing nothing but the air, mud and grass. Hot with thwarted
fury, he scrambled to his feet and faced Tom again.
Now Pat rushed anew; but it was noticeable that his rush was shorter
and more feeble. This time he stumbled and went down on his hands and
knees, as Tom slipped easily away.
“C’mon!” snarled the infuriated soldier. “Stand up an’ fight like a
man, yuh slinkin’ ’fraidy-cat!”
It was clear that Fagan was trying to get Tom mad, so that he would
wade in and mix it hammer and tongs. But Tom, though young in years,
had an old head on his shoulders. He was too cagy to be caught in
Pat’s snare. He merely danced about with fists ready, and on his face
a cool and exasperating smile.
Fagan made another bull-like rush; but to no avail. Tom dodged away
like a shadow. Now Pat stood stock-still again. The look of surprise
was growing on his puffed, bloody face; for he had taken several,
straight, heavy punches. Furthermore, he was now blowing and puffing
like a heavey horse. On the other hand, Tom was still breathing pretty
evenly, but his arms and shoulders were getting sore and bruised from
warding off Pat’s desperate swings.
And thus it went for some time more,--with the ponderous soldier ever
charging and the agile lad always cleverly evading his rushes. Then,
all at once, Tom changed his strategy. His keen eye detected that the
mountainous Fagan was half groggy and badly blown. Quick as a bounding
deer, the boy sprang forward, catching the surprised soldier with his
guard partly down. Tom bounced first his right fist, and then his
left, off Pat’s face. But the heavy-set fellow wasn’t knocked over.
His head rocked, he was stung hard, but he lunged blindly forward,
notwithstanding. One big hand caught Tom by the arm, while the other
crept halfway about the boy’s waist.
The next moment or so was a whirlwind of excitement. The crowd was
all jumping up and down and yelling like wild Indians. Tom, agile
as he was, couldn’t break free, and he couldn’t get enough force in
his blows, cramped as he was, to put Fagan down for good. It was a
desperate tussle, now, to see which fighter could throw the other and
come down on top. It was just the kind of fight that Tom had tried to
avoid. But he was still strong and quick, while the hulking Pat was
muscle-weary and spent; so the match now looked pretty even, in spite
of the soldier’s greater bulk.
Suddenly, the wily Tom got his heel back of Pat’s and tripped him
handily. Pat fell hard, so hard that his savage clutch loosened. With
a quick twist of his body Tom wrenched himself free and bounced to his
feet again, alert for whatever might come.
Fagan lay flat on his back for a half-minute, panting heavily and
looking at Tom with an evil gleam in his eye. Finally, he got to a
sitting posture. Then, as he put one hand back of him to help him rise
to his feet, he felt in the grass a broken axe-handle that had been
thrown aside there. Pat’s fingers closed tightly over the hardwood
handle. With a murderous look on his face he lurched swiftly to his
feet.
“Watch sharp, Tom!” yelped Ben frantically. “He’s got a club!”
Fagan swung back his brawny arm. “I’ll cave in yur skull, yuh young
polecat!” he snarled at Tom.
Before the big ruffian could strike, however, Sandy the trapper, Ben
and three or four others of the onlookers threw themselves upon him.
With great effort they dragged him cursing and fuming to the earth.
“Thur’ll be none of yer foul play, Pat Fagan!” rasped Sandy.
“He didn’t fit fair!” glowered the enraged soldier. “I’l have his
blasted hide some day, that I will!”
“Oh, shet yer big mouth,” ordered the trapper sternly, as he and the
others struggled to hold down the half-crazed man. “It was a whale of a
fight, an’ he licked yuh fair an’ square.”
“Sure he did,” added Ben heatedly.
“You ain’t got no kick comin’, Pat,” put in another man. “You had your
chance, but the lad was too much for you. He can fight like a bulldog.”
Sandy turned to Tom, who was standing by, his fists still clenched.
“An’ now, Tom lad,” he advised, “you’d better move on to the village
with your brother. If Pat was any kind of a man, he’d shake hands
an’ call it quits fer good. But he’s a blackhearted villain, an’ I’m
warnin’ yuh to watch him well as long as yur in these parts.”